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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27542959">The Five Stages of Losing Cas</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrJackAndMissJo/pseuds/DrJackAndMissJo'>DrJackAndMissJo</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Angst and Humor, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Five Stages of Grief, Grief/Mourning, Hurt, M/M, Patrochilles parallels, This Is Sad, but i promise, i suck at summaries, set during 13x01, this is good</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 03:08:44</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,391</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27542959</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrJackAndMissJo/pseuds/DrJackAndMissJo</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"Dean Winchester was very familiar with the concept of Death. Hell, he had even met the Bastard a couple of times, then proceeded to kill him and meet his successor. (...)He hadn’t even realised that Sam had left him there, kneeling on the floor over a  <em>sleeping</em> Cas. (...) If he just  <em>opened his eyes </em>, so they could get going.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Castiel/Dean Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>43</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Five Stages of Losing Cas</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I made a playlist specifically for this!<br/><a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4x1aFaFII0OMC1f9sB5dFu"> on Spotify </a><br/>each part is linked/inspired/written by these song, each section has 6 songs<br/>Let me know what you think!<br/>also this fic was originally inspired by me listening to Someone You Loved on repeat, so there's that.<br/>And please comment!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>DENIAL</strong>
</p><p>Dean Winchester was very familiar with the concept of Death. Hell, he had even met the Bastard a couple of times, then proceeded to kill him and meet his successor.</p><p>He had died more times than he could count on a hand, more than he could remember now. They had been a fuzzy collapsing of memories, his final moments: each time he died, something was added in his mind, the sadness that drowned him at the thought of leaving his loved ones behind momentarily forgotten as he saw their faces once more, even for a single feeble moment. He thought it was just a dream, the first time, when he saw Sam and Mom and Dad and Bobby, but then he woke up as a spirit chasing a reaper and his work was still not done, not by far.</p><p>But, no matter how many times he died, he still wasn’t completely used to the feeling of total nothingness that swept his bones and settled deep in his soul. What was comforting, now that it had happened so many times, was the knowledge of what would come afterwards. It was a very cosy and warm sensation, one that gave him ease during the hardest hunts and battles: no matter where he would end up, he would be alright.</p><p>Sure, upstairs would always be better, who wouldn’t want to re-live inside their best and happiest memories until the End with the people that they love? But there was the small issue of Angels being all Major Dicks, with only one exception in the entire Universe.</p><p>And downstairs, getting tortured and beaten down until you turn evil and get your revenge and eventually become a demon? Not so peachy, but doable, especially since Dean knew Hell inside and out by now, having done it all, one way or the other.</p><p>And he had been in both places countless times, enough to know that there weren’t too big differences, especially in the bureaucracy. Demons sucked, Angels sucked, and they all had some deep agenda that somehow put him and Sam in the middle of their bickering.</p><p>Not that he’d ever be admitted upstairs, he had done too many bad things and, although stopping an Apocalypse couldn’t be seen as ‘<em>bad’</em> per se, he had still thrown a wrench in their Heavenly plans one too many times. He doubted they’d let him set a foot on their white floors anytime soon.</p><p>Unless, of course, there was a change in leadership, but that wasn’t about to happen anytime soon.</p><p>Dean would rather just sleep until the End, no-one to tell him what to do and not a single task to deal with, just complete peace without having to move a muscle, his well-earned rest. He thought he deserved something like that, but so far nor Heaven nor Hell and neither Purgatory offered that sort of package deal.</p><p>Overall, his life had been so completely shaped by Death that it was an integral part of him now.</p><p>He had to learn from a young age that everyone died at some point, that there was no going back from there and that there was no point in wasting time being sad, a bullet could come out of nowhere or a monster could jump and kill him if he was distracted. It definitely was some fucked up knowledge that he shouldn’t have internalized, but it worked when he was growing up in the hunting life. And so it had been.</p><p>Everyone in his life had died at least once at some point, some rather violently. He knew better than to pray now, aware that he would not like the replies, but when he was younger he didn’t know better and it led to hope, such an addicting drug that leads nowhere. He didn’t even know who he was praying to, but some small part of him believed that there was someone keeping an eye out for him and so he kept on hoping he was being heard. Again, he knew way better now.</p><p>Then Angels and Demons became suddenly more real than he had believed, almost as if they had stepped out of his nightmares and memories out of the blue, and he had lost the little faith he had in him. He had stopped praying for things to go well, for the people he loved to stop dying.</p><p>He logically knew it was all bound to happen at some point, and again, and again, until the End of the World. He had lost count of how many people he knew and cared for had passed away, of how many funerals he had attended during the years, of how many bottles he had seen the end of, chasing numbness.</p><p>But Dean could never forget each and every one of the six times his little brother had died, especially not the first time.</p><p>How weird it was, to know that both he and his brother had died more than once and would probably die some more before it was their final time.</p><p>Dean considered it one of his worst memories: he could still feel the despair wreak his body as he held onto Sam for dear life, clinging to the rapidly cooling body as he screamed and yelled at the top of his lungs; he could taste the bile and see the way his vision faltered under his tears. He remembered the pain that drove him insane, that made him dug that hole and make that stupid deal with the stupid demon that started the stupid Apocalypse.</p><p>Yet, in hindsight, he had no regrets. All of that was to come was made worthy the moment he came back to an alright Sammy, all in one piece and without a single scar, his shirt pressed and his hair untangled. And he would do it all again, if that meant his brother was safe and sound.</p><p>Dean was so incredibly familiar with Death that he couldn’t think of a single moment in his life when he wasn’t around, shadowing everything with his looming presence. But that knowledge didn’t make reality less painful.</p><p>He hadn’t even realised that Sam had left him there, kneeling on the floor over a <em>sleeping</em> Cas. He had gone back into the house, to some task that Dean couldn’t remember about, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He knew that he should’ve followed, a voice in the back of his head whispered at him to do so, but he couldn’t get up.</p><p>Cas would probably need to help him, his knees had finally given out after years of use. It was a shame they didn’t have Bobby’s wheelchair anymore, but he reasoned they could find one pretty easily and then Cas would push him around in their hunts, some sort of payback for him dragging the Angel around the country.</p><p>If he just <em>opened his eyes</em>, so they could get going.</p><p>His legs were going numb, but he couldn’t move. Not until Cas had woken up from his well-deserved but ill-timed nap. Granted, Dean was always complaining about how he never got enough sleep, on how if he rested maybe he’d be a little less stiff, even if Cas didn’t sleep per se, so he probably needed the extra rest, but didn’t he know that it was incredibly rude to snooze?</p><p>He surely was one to talk, considering how many times Cas had barged in his room at the bunker with a pot of fresh coffee reminding him that it was well past noon.</p><p>Cas had to open his eyes and ask to be shotgun on their drive back to the bunker and Dean had to begrudgingly give in to the request, not even having to think about it, but still pretending to for Sammy’s sake. He loved when Cas was shotgun, he would always toy and fret with the seatbelt as if he didn’t know what to make of it, and whenever a particular song that he knew came on the radio or on one of Dean’s tapes he would whisper all excitedly at him: <em>“I know this!”</em> and then proceed to badly mouth along with the lyrics, butchering it with his raspy voice and making Dean’s heart swell and grow a tenfold.</p><p>And Dean had to pretend that he wasn’t fond of him, that he didn’t love each and every second of Castiel sitting next to him, separated only by the console that divided them, making the short distance feel unreachable and miles apart. He had to hide his joy at having Cas right there, forever, because he didn’t like when Sam was shotgun and so he shouldn’t like it when it was Cas either.</p><p>Sam was obnoxious, never knowing when to shut up and let Dean drive with his music and his thoughts swarming his head. And Sam always complained about his music choices, the way he turned right, the speed limit. He always got juice instead of beer whenever they stopped somewhere and he would force Dean to make a million bathroom stops instead of holding it in like a grown-up.</p><p>And Dean had to be always so vigilant whenever Sammy was shotgun, he couldn’t let the car slide too much and lose control. His brother hadn’t realized it yet, but since their accident with John, he was always extra careful whenever Sam was in the front. He couldn’t go through that another time, no matter how much Sammy’s teasing stung and bruised his ego. He knew he was a good driver, so he could take it. And so he would.</p><p>But with Cas, it was completely different. He could relax, hold the wheel with one hand as he imagined the other gently holding Cas’s, a thought that would never see the light of day. He could talk and joke and just be himself, without refrains. Hell, he had even put on a pop radio once and listened along to Taylor Swift, with Cas smiling at him as he banged his head to the music and tapped his fingers on the steering wheel in time.</p><p>It was their secret, he’d never survive if it was Sammy who saw him like that, would have never seen the end of all the mocking and teasing.</p><p>But not with Cas.</p><p>No, his Angel was discreet and calming, had grown to know him better than he knew himself. And Dean loved him for that, for the familiarity of their banter, for knowing exactly how many coffees he needed to function in the morning, how he needed his space sometimes to let his mind run and kill him, how he liked the mindless company afterwards.</p><p>Not that he would ever admit it, he was far too cowardly to do so. He was content staring at the glowing sun that was Castiel, all his joy and happiness and grace, and he was content just flying next to him, risking melting his wax wings like Icarus. Dean realised very early on their friendship that falling for Castiel wasn’t all that bad as he had imagined. It was painful, mind you, undoubtedly so, but it was incredibly worthy. And, just like his first deal, he would do it all over again without hesitation, if it meant having Cas shotgun, laughing or silent next to him.</p><p>If only he would wake up!</p><p> They had work to do and Cas knew it very well. Mom had passed into the alternate dimension with the Devil and they had to rescue her! And there was the Spawn to also deal with. Their work was far from done. Yet Castiel simply laid there, sleeping and unresponsive.</p><p>He could see it happening: Cas would wake up out of the blue, complaining about how sleeping for less than an hour, or ‘<em><span class="u">napping’</span></em> as he always called it with air quotes and a face of disapproval, was a human ritual that made absolutely no sense whatsoever and that left his vessel feeling less energised and more cranky than usual, moving his head from side to side to release the tension in his neck; he would look at Dean then, wide blue eyes so open it would definitely hurt, the pupils naturally dilatated to acknowledge the lack of light, and for no other reason at all; Cas would have to help him up, reminding him to do his daily exercises more religiously, that his human body was rapidly reaching a point of no turning back and that his joints would thank him for the stretch. <em>“You don’t need to go ‘overboard’ as Sam does,”</em> he had told him once when they were grocery shopping, Sam refusing to tag along for his sacred daily run in the woods surrounding the bunker, “<em>but some exercise would do you wonders, especially if you want to keep your diet the same.”</em></p><p>Dean had replied in the only way he knew how: he mocked his last sentence with a grin, reminding him he was ‘<em>the meat man’</em> and he wouldn’t survive on rabbit stupid food! And Castiel had laughed, under the bored gaze of the cashier and under the loving stare of Dean. He had to turn around immediately, least of all his Angel knew of his blushing cheeks.</p><p>That probably was the only thing he couldn’t tell Cas, but deep down he knew they both knew. If only he had just told him, instead.</p><p>There were so many things he wished he could tell Cas, each one more devastating than the last. He wanted to tell him that he loved waking up in the morning to find him in the kitchen at the bunker with a cup filled with coffee to the brim, enough sugar to give him diabetes, as Cas always told him, but still filled to his hearts desires nevertheless. He loved the way Cas would reprise him for his eating habits, yet always indulge him in a cheeseburger and fries and an extra slice of pie. He adored the way Cas’ face would light up whenever they solved a problem together, be it on a hunt by locating the week’s monster in a particular hidden lair, or be the leaking tube under the sink in his bathroom, Dean holding a parrot beak to tighten it while Cas shoved a flashlight directly in his face, making it impossible to see, his trench coat long forgotten in his bedroom and sleeves rolled up. He always leaned too close to Dean, making it almost impossible to work in the tight fit without knocking one over the other, yet they always managed to make work around Dean’s stubbornness and Cas’ lack of regard for personal space. He was a curious Angel, always wanting to see what Dean was up to and always following around to do the most mundane of tasks.</p><p>And Dean would never find the courage to confront him, never wanted to risk he stopped.</p><p>They were stuck at a supermarket once, choosing the toilet paper. The memory shouldn’t have been that high on Dean’s list of his favourite moments ever, but he would rather be stuck choosing fucking toilet paper in the middle of nowhere with Cas than to be here, kneeling over his <em>sleeping</em> body.</p><p>Dean felt the air leave his lungs, felt the pebbles dig into the fabric of his jeans and tear into his skin, he felt his hand reach to the still body in front of him, the red stain on his chest growing with each passing moment. It all felt like an out-of-body experience, his body was there, he could feel his hands heaving over Castiel’s, begging to grasp and to hold. But his mind wasn’t there.</p><p>He was thinking back to how happy Cas had seemed just a couple of moments earlier, before that monster had decided to take him away from Dean.</p><p>He fell, his knees finally giving out and forcing him to lay down next to Cas. He desperately wanted to hold him closer, to give him his heat and to try and guide him back to life. He wanted to scream, to cry, to trash the world down and tear it apart bit by bit, all to get Castiel to open his stupid blue eyes and look at him with that stupid goofy expression of his that Dean never quite managed to understand.</p><p>He wanted nothing more than having his Angel back and it was killing him to not see his smile.</p><p>Dean Winchester was too familiar with Death, he bitterly realised as the tears never came. He had spent too many years holding himself back, being presentable and staying put, never making a sound out of line. And now, now that he wanted to yell at the skies with all his might, he couldn’t.</p><p>And Dean Winchester realised that maybe he wasn’t as familiar with Death, not as much as he had thought initially, when he understood that he had no idea where Angels and Demons went once they died. He couldn’t just storm Heaven or Hell or Purgatory, searching for his Angel and making sure he remained by his side until the End.</p><p>But he didn’t have to.</p><p>Inside the house, there was an all-powerful being, a Nephilim that could do so much. It was still the Spawn of the Devil, but if Dean knew one thing, it was that you can get any child to do whatever you need to with the right education. John Winchester had taught him so, while making him his personal soldier, diligent and somewhat efficient, even when he completely fucked everything up.</p><p>He rose up quickly, ignoring the way his body screamed at him to hold Castiel, to just wait for him to wake up on his own. He still looked at him in disbelief, as if he could open his eyes at any moment. He would beg and pray for someone to make Cas open his eyes once again, but he knew better by now.</p><p>No one was listening.</p><p>He had to work alone now. He would go upstairs to Sam and make the Spawn listen. He would get his Angel back, no matter what the cost.</p><p>Dean was willing to burn the Earth to the ground, if that meant Castiel could get back to him, and he would do it without remorse.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>ANGER AND BARGAINING</strong>
</p><p>Dean didn’t know what had gotten to him. Or rather, he didn’t want to acknowledge the gut-wrenching emotion that came out of him at the sight of the Spawn.</p><p>He had always tried to keep his instincts at bay, knowing that nothing he did was ever right even when he thought plans out to perfection, and so he tried to ignore the urge that made him reckless as much as he could. Granted, he always would rather shoot first and ask questions later, but years of dealing with unkillable creatures taught him patience.</p><p>Patience that was thrown out of the window as he entered the room. There was Sam, all in one piece, calmly talking to a figure hiding in the darkness.</p><p>His mind screamed at him to lower his gun, to reason, to do all he could to force the Spawn to get Castiel back. But he couldn’t.</p><p>One look at his glowing eyes made Dean fire, uncaring of the screams coming from Sam. He had the reason of all the pain in front of him, if he hadn’t decided to show up Mom would still be there with them, Cas would stand next to him with his stupid eyes open instead of laying in the cold dirt outside. It didn’t matter that he looked scared, cornered and naked and shaking. He was the reason Cas wasn’t waking up, the Son of the bastard that had stabbed his Angel in the back and left him there. And so he shot him, firing his gun and making the thing scream before he disappeared.</p><p>His had been an incredibly idiotic idea, but at least they knew that the Spawn couldn’t be killed easily. And at least now they had another issue to worry about, effectively putting his mind off of Cas and Mom’s fate for a short while.</p><p>He would rather be angry at the kid and at the Universe than having to deal with what had happened.</p><p>He would rather anything other than this.</p><p>“I’m gonna call Jody, check in, see if she can’t help us put a nationwide APB out on the creepy satanic nudist,” he had told Sam when he was getting in the cheap chain. He had all the intention in the world to do so, he wanted to focus on something other than the gaping hole in his heart, but he just couldn’t.</p><p>He walked around the building, making sure he was alone. He wasn’t proud or anything, but some things need privacy to work, or so he had figured out in years of Heavenly contacts. Cas had always responded to his prayers, back when he still had his wings. And he really owed them, big time now, so he might just decide to pop out in the middle of nowhere.</p><p>Or so Dean thought.</p><p>“Okay, Chuck…” he began, unsure of what he was supposed to say. He hadn’t prayed in a long time, not since Purgatory, didn’t really have had the need to do so. Not when he had his Angel on speed dial, texting at all the hours of the day and night and letting him exhale freely, even from miles away. “Or God, or whatever. I… I need your help,” he choked, unable to formulate words any longer. He knew that this was going to be painful and pointless, he knew better than to pray to an entity who never cared about any of them. But he had to try. For Cas.</p><p>“See, you–” he said, trying to keep his voice level and trying not to yell up at the silent skies, “you left us. You left us. You went off. You said… You said the earth would be fine because it had me… and it had Sam, but it’s not, and we’re not.”</p><p>They had officially lost everything. He had officially lost the reason he got up in the morning, his best friend, his Angel. And He had to answer, Chuck had to give him a sign that it was all going to come back to what it used to. He had to, both he and Sammy had fought too hard and too long and they deserved a break, they deserved happiness finally. He deserved happiness, even if it killed him, even if Castiel would never hold his hand or stay the night just talking about nothing with him.</p><p>He deserved happiness, and it had just been taken away from him.</p><p>“We’ve lost everything” he spoke sternly, holding back his tongue and his tears. He was Dean Winchester, for fuck’s sake, and he had a job to do. He couldn’t lose himself in sadness and in fear, Chuck was going to answer his call and he was going to get this right. He had to. “And now you’re gonna bring <span class="u">him</span> back. Okay? You’re gonna bring back Cas, you’re gonna bring back Mom, you’re gonna bring ‘em all back. All of ‘em. Even Crowley.”</p><p>After all that he and Sam had done, they deserved a win. They deserved peace, they deserved to have a family. They had fought so hard and they had earned, only to have it all taken away in the span of a moment. And he knew that someone must have been listening, otherwise Cas’ entire work would have been pointless, and Dean wouldn’t allow that.</p><p>“Because after everything that you’ve done, you owe us, you son of a bitch!” he couldn’t keep the voice as steady as he wanted it to be, but he still hoped it would convey his message upstairs. He needed to be heard, he needed help to fix this mess, he had been a good little soldier all of his life, he knew he had earned this. At least this. “So you get your ass down here and you make this right, right here and right now,” he kept on commanding.</p><p>After all he had done, he deserved to be heard, it was his right. The entire Universe owed him and he was bargaining all of that for one soul, begging for his Angel to be alright.</p><p>But, being raised into the hunting life taught him that his wishes would never be granted, no matter how many lives he saved, no matter how many Apocalypses he stopped, no matter how much good he did. He was nothing and his desires were nothing and he should be thankful he was still alive. But he wasn’t.</p><p>Not when he had done everything right and had followed orders to a fault and played his role in the great scheme of things. Not when he knew that nothing in his life was real, that at every moment he could be himself and then someone else entirely, following a script of a malicious being.</p><p>And he was tired, so fucking tired of hammering around like he was trapped in a rodent cage, twirling on a wheel for other’s delight. He wanted to scream, to crash and to burn. He wanted to go upstairs and demand his Cas back, with bloody knuckles and an Angel blade in hand.</p><p>He just wanted peace. But, of course, he was never getting it. It was all an illusion, free will, an invisible trap that kept every human tied down, that prevented them to do anything that it wasn’t already written. Because that was Chuck’s whole ordeal, he loved to play the puppet master, the entire planet was his personal playground, no matter how much he liked to pretend otherwise.</p><p>He needed to scream, but with Sammy so near, he couldn’t. He was his big brother, after all, the one that never broke down, no matter how hard things might get. Yet, he still needed to let go part of the rage he could feel boiling under his skin, otherwise he might’ve exploded.</p><p>And so he did, he began to punch the ugly sign on the door, uncaring if the wood splintered his skin and bloodied his knuckles.</p><p>One, two, three, four, five times. That was all it took to completely break it, all it took him to stop having something to destroy, something he could have control of.</p><p>“Please. Please help us,” he begged one last time, unsure of whom he was talking with. It didn’t matter anymore, he would have taken anyone’s offer. But no one would answer, he bitterly realised, again, not for the last time.</p><p>Because, of course that Son of a Bitch wouldn’t answer. Black Sabbath had warned them, didn’t they? God is dead and God never listens. Why would he?</p><p>He had gotten what he wanted, they had somehow defeated the Darkness, made her understand that destruction wasn’t the way even if it was their entire way of living, and now the Universe was in perfect balance. They were just toys in his little game board, pawns he could move as he wished. Team Free Will was all but an illusion and he had won his war, he didn’t care about them anymore.</p><p>They were all alone, as usual, as with Dad. He and Sammy would have to fend for themselves and try to get Cas back the old fashion way. He would stop at nothing, he needed his happiness, he deserved him. Dean was going to let the world burn for him.</p><p>And it wasn’t gonna be pretty, he sourly thought as he went back to the Impala, back to Sam with his answers, hoping he wasn’t going to notice his torn knuckles. </p><p>
  <strong>GUILT</strong>
</p><p>Dean knew that he needed to keep focused on something, otherwise he would’ve exploded. And Sammy needed him all in one piece, especially with the kid around and extremely dangerous. He knew, deep down, that Castiel believed in him, that he was good and not at all like his biological father. But he didn’t care, not anymore, not when his world had fallen and had broken in tiny splinters that made his heart ache with every breath.</p><p>And so he had left Sam with the kid, not even half a rambled apology to excuse his leave. John would’ve reprised him at such bad behaviour, but he wasn’t around, hadn’t been in a long time. And no matter how free he was now, he would’ve welcomed his father’s orders, his shouts, to function properly, especially when all he wanted to was curl around himself and cry until the End.</p><p>Forget the original Flood, if he let a single tear escape there would be no holding back.</p><p>And he had to keep it all tightly in, Sam couldn’t see him like that. How would he be able to explain? “<em>You see, I am in love with Castiel and him dying killed me?” </em>That was not something he could’ve said, not to anyone. Hell, not even to himself.</p><p>He just had to shoulder this, like he did everything else, bury his emotions down and keep them under lock and key. That was the only way to work.</p><p>Because if he let himself go, then he would lose his mind, and with everything going on, his mind was the only thing he could rely on.</p><p>And so he picked up his axe, like he had done too many times, and he started working. He let each blow resonate, deep inside of him, he heaved against the trees with all his strength. He had done this too many times, it had become mechanical at this point, yet this time it was different.</p><p>His arms were weak, tired from fighting and from sorrow. He was tired and there was no rest that could heal him. The only thing that could grant him his peace was gone, forever, and it was his own damn fault.</p><p><em>“You take things and break things and piss people off, and just do whatever you want, no matter who it hurts,” </em>that bitch angel had said. As if it needed to be said, he already knew all of that. Dean didn’t need the reminder, he lived his life and he knew who he was.</p><p>Dean Winchester was a coward, was a scared little boy that couldn’t hide behind his Father’s legs every time he was terrified, because his father would always be scarier than monsters, and that had to grow up and be on his own too soon, while raising his brother and while fighting for his life. <em>He was destructive and he was angry and he was broken</em>. So broken.</p><p>No matter how hard he tried, there was no way getting back his pieces, they were permanently scattered around the universe. He remembered, when both he and Sam were young, that he had told his little brother that all could be fixed with duct tape, making it sound like the most magical thing in creation. It was his entire weaponry when he was a seven years old that had to look after a very energetic toddler. Sammy was always bumping into things, falling and then getting up laughing, and Dean’s little heart would make a somersault every single time, because his Sammy couldn’t get hurt, not on his watch. And, while playing, Sammy sometimes caused lamps to fall too and they would break most often than not, a problem in its own, but the cheap plastic covers that every motel put on them would get on the ground and it would splinter. So he would get the trusty tool out of his backpack and patch everything up as best as he could, this way Sammy wouldn’t cut himself on accident and this way he could pretend that it was already broken to begin with. What normal seven years old would have duct tape in their backpack, after all?</p><p>And Sammy would laugh at his serious face, as he tried to work as best as his little hands could, trying not to get his palms sliced on the sharp edges. They were already full of tiny white scars from the incidents during the years.</p><p>But it was his job and he would do it flawlessly, he reminded himself every day when he had to wake up before Sam to fix him breakfast. Dad was off working an important case and he had to stay behind and help Sammy.</p><p>That was his life purpose back then, and it was still his mission now.</p><p>And Sam, he had grown up beautifully, all the right toes and all the right fingers, he said please and thank you even when Dean didn’t, he had gotten to college and he was making a life for himself. If only Dean hadn’t been so useless all those years back, he would probably be married to Jess with a dozen little dogs and he would be happy.</p><p>If it wasn’t for Dean, he would be happy. He probably wouldn’t have died as many times as he did as well.</p><p>The list of people whose lives he had ruined was infinite. Bobby, Mom, Dad. And Cas. Everyone that had ever met him was tainted by his darkness, nothing he ever did was right. If a situation could be screwed over, he would find a way to do it, to fuck the entire world up beyond repair.</p><p>He leaned against the tree with his full weight, axe thrown to the ground as he tried to breathe. He wouldn’t cry, he couldn’t let the dam crack and destroy him, no matter how much he wanted to. Cas was gone, definitely so. There was no getting him back this time, not even the all-powerful half-angel kid that Heaven was looking for could do it, and it was all his fault. That bitch angel was right.  </p><p>He needed to duct tape himself back together, otherwise none of this was going to work.</p><p>Except that he couldn’t, not this time. There was no soul duct tape, no magical cure for a broken heart. A spell could backfire, he could lose all his memories of Cas and that was a fate worse than death. He would rather have the bittersweet memories in place of a working mind any day.</p><p>Besides, he needed them to remind himself of his faults. He had managed to destroy the only good thing that had ever happened to him, to crush his only chance at true peace. Not only did he drive Cas away with his bullshit over and over again, always fearing he’d never come back and always surprised when he did, but now Cas was dead because of him, because he hadn’t stabbed that son of a bitch and because he hadn’t been brave enough to let Michael in all those damned years back.</p><p>He would still be alive and whole and holy, if Dean hadn’t shown up to ruin his life. It was his fault he had fallen, it was his ass that he had saved in Hell, it was all because of him. He had died because of him and now Dean didn’t know how to live with himself.</p><p>Dean was done praying, he knew better than that. There was no one in the Universe who could get him Castiel back, nor anyone wanted to. No one had ever listened to him, except the one good Angel that was now no more.</p><p>The only person that had put up with his bullshit, no matter how stubborn or hard-ass he became, was gone and he wasn’t coming back.</p><p>And it was all Dean’s fault. And he couldn’t deal with the reality, not yet.</p><p>So he did what he did best: kept on working, focusing on the rhythm of the axe against the wood, desperately trying to hold himself together.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>DEPRESSION</strong>
</p><p>Dean walked back to the cabin on slow feet, dreading every step. His feet dragged on the ground. It took him almost an entire hour to finish collecting all the pieces for the pyre, but it was worth it in the end. Cas deserved it to be perfect and Dean would give him perfection, even in this.</p><p>But he knew that, if it was up to him, he would’ve fallen to his knees and simply laid there, forever, unable to continue in a world without his Angel.</p><p>He also knew that, as entrancing as the thought was, he could never do it. He would never leave Sam, especially not to deal with the child of the Devil alone. He had to keep on fighting, for Cas, for Mom, for the world. But it was so hard and all he wanted was quiet now.</p><p>The door was still open, ready for him to cross. There would be no turning back now, if he ignored it all he might just be able to pretend that this wasn’t his final goodbye. He might pretend that Cas was back at the bunker, or away somewhere, his perfect and stupid face happy and alive. He could pretend he was alright. That he was going to come back to him, like he always did no matter how untreatable Dean was.</p><p>He could pretend he hadn’t lost his life.</p><p>Yet he soldiered on, as he always did. He thought he was used to all the pain and the sorrow and the despair, but life seemed to always one-up itself. There was always another monster, another funeral, another. And Dean was so tired, had always been tired.</p><p>He was tired whenever John would come back drunk and pissed, looking for someone to yell at. He would send Sammy away, telling him that they were going to play hide and seek when Dad was going to bed and that it was better if he started now, to have the advantage.</p><p>He was tired whenever he was stranded on a case, no one answering his phone calls to give him tips and help, all of them busy with their lives: Sammy off to college, living the life he deserved; Bobby furious for some reason with John, even though deep down Dean knew it had all been his fault; and John Winchester away, with a second family that wasn’t as fucked up as the first.</p><p>Dean couldn’t blame any of them, not really, he knew that he was the reason they all had to look for happiness away from him, he knew that everything he touched was poison and that he ruined even the most idyllic of situations. It shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did, but Dean couldn’t help himself.</p><p>He was so tired he couldn’t even realise that everything he had ever wanted, everything he had ever prayed and begged and bargained for, had been right next to him for years. And if he hadn’t been such a coward, he could’ve had that happiness, that peace, that love he longed for. But he was still the scared little boy that slept with a gun under his pillow and a knife on the nightstand, because he knew that monsters were everywhere and not just under his bed. He was still the useless child his father had to shout orders at, to bring him back to reality whenever he was being irrational and stupid. He was still the idiot who could not do anything right, no matter how hard he tried, and he would always fuck everything up and fail, no matter how hard he tried.</p><p>He was still Dean and it was not enough.</p><p>And this was all his fault.</p><p>He could still pretend, for a little longer, that this wasn’t real, that he hadn’t lost his best friend, that he wasn’t alone. If he only left the sheet on, didn’t touch it, left that cabin, that life. It would be too easy, to take Baby and just drive until the gas ran out, and to just sit there, at the edge of the world, waiting for the End. It would be peaceful, then, he wouldn’t need to fight anymore, just take in the scene and breathe, one last time.</p><p>Dean doubted anyone would go around missing him, he had never managed to do one right thing in his entire life, so why would anyone need him?</p><p>No, if the sheet stayed on, covering a nameless body on a nameless table in a nameless cabin lost in nameless woods, maybe he wouldn’t need to face a world where everything had gone to shit.</p><p>But, of course, the world was burning and dying and there was nothing to do anymore. Just sit there and wait for the show.</p><p>He gingerly touched the fabric, for one last time, he could pretend that this wasn’t real, that it was him down there instead of his Angel. He wished at least.</p><p>And indeed there he was, sleeping and beautiful and perfect and so utterly dead because of Dean.</p><p>He couldn’t cry, wouldn’t. He needed to remain still, he had no time to waste on tears. Even if he desperately wanted them to come, the tears still remained behind, unable to fall. Years of holding them back worked too well.</p><p>And Castiel didn’t deserve his tears, he deserved way more than the little pathetic life he could offer. Perhaps it was best like this, he reasoned with himself, this way he couldn’t fuck him up more. Cas was free, away from his ruinous touch.</p><p>He covers him again, unable to stare at the perfect face of the only person in the world that had thought that maybe, just maybe, Dean was salvageable. He knew better than to hope it was true, but Cas gave him strength and he was now lost.</p><p>The ugly yellow curtains drew his attention, their dirty muted colour called his name. They were hideous, just as Dean was. They would do.</p><p>He started tearing at them, relying on muscle memory to guide him through the motions of something he had done too many times. Each time, he wondered what it would feel to have it done to him, what he would feel as he burned in a pyre.</p><p>Not that he would feel anything in that situation, too far gone. But that was what wishful thinking was for.</p><p>He could pretend that he was the one under the sheet, with Cas wrapping him up. Maybe it would’ve been better like that.</p><p>Deep breaths, those always seemed to calm him, since he was young, but now they did nothing. With each exhale, he felt like he was letting a part of Cas leave, like he was saying goodbye to himself too.</p><p>He just kept on wrapping and preparing him, like he knew Sam was doing upstairs with Kelly’s body. But, unlike his little brother, he knew that he wasn’t just draping his best friend up in some old curtains.</p><p>He was prepping and covering the rest of his heart in there too.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>ACCEPTANCE</strong>
</p><p>They waited until the sun was down to light up the pyre. It took him and Sam the remaining of the day to assemble everything, putting each little piece of wood with meticulous precision. It had to be perfect and Dean welcomed the splinters of wood that dug into his hands, he welcomed the pain in his back.</p><p>It was a good distraction to keep the numbness of his heart away.</p><p>And so they worked in silence. Dean knew he was being selfish, he knew that Sam had also lost a friend, but Castiel was <em>his</em> and he didn’t have the words to help Sammy through his own grief. He was pathetic, the moment his brother needed him was also the one when he couldn’t help.</p><p>He knew that he should’ve said something, he was good at that even: he had always had a good word to comfort his little brother whenever he was scared, or upset, or whenever he was being bad on purpose, refusing to eat the food that Dean had worked hard to cook as best as he could in a crappy motel room without a stove.</p><p>But words failed him now, he couldn’t find them even if he tried. And so he kept on moving his hands, concentrating on the small task at hand, ignoring the way his heart bleed from the inside.</p><p>It wasn’t tradition per se, having a hunter style funeral after the sun was gone, but it was nice nevertheless. Whenever they had to burn a body to kill its ghost, it was better to do so with the complicity of the dark, this way no one would disturb them too much. But burning one of their own required painstaking patience, especially nowadays, when people didn’t stay as dead as they used to.</p><p>Dean wanted to wait until the last possible minute, he wanted to believe that his prayers had been answered, he wanted something. He needed something.</p><p>Of course, nothing came. He knew better than to hope by now, yet a tiny part of him still believed that something good could come, foolishly so. When did things go well for the Winchesters? Never.</p><p>And so, when the sun finally set on them, he brought the wrapped body to the pyre, placing it with all the gentleness he had in his body. Sammy was going to help Jack carry his dead mother, and so he had a quiet moment, just the two of them.</p><p>There were many things he wanted to say, all the unheard words that were clawing at the back of his throat had decided collectively to hurt more now than they ever did. But he couldn’t let them go, just as he couldn’t let himself go. They still had a long road to walk and he couldn’t afford that.</p><p>Because that was the only thing that was keeping him from jumping there, following Castiel into the peace. He couldn’t leave his little brother alone.</p><p>And sure enough, there they were. Sam and Jack, two demonic children, carrying a dead body. He desperately wanted to believe that there was something good about the kid, but he just couldn’t. Not when he saw his biological father in him, not when he saw Castiel in his kindness. That kid had gotten a close look at Cas’ soul, closer than Dean ever would, closer than he could now.</p><p>He wasn’t even registering the words that he and Sam spoke to each other, his eyes were stuck to the unmoving body on the pyre. He needed a sign, a tiny movement, <em>something</em>. Anything.</p><p>He thought that, if he kept on staring hard enough, something might happen, that Cas might come back, just to tell him to stop being a little bitch.</p><p>But nothing did happen. He was dead. Properly dead. And they had lost all of their wishes with the Universe, so there was no way of bringing him back one last time.</p><p>He had lost him, for good.</p><p>“Well, goodbye, Cas. Goodbye, Kelly. Goodbye, Crowley. Goodbye, Mom.” That was all he managed to say, blocking all images of Cas out of his mind. Better to do this quickly, better to ignore the gnarling pain inside of him, better to keep it all locked down.</p><p>He needed to think, he needed to distract himself, otherwise, nothing would have worked. He couldn’t let himself feel the crippling pain that had already engulfed his soul. He wouldn’t.</p><p>He had to be strong, for Sam. For his little brother who had lost the mother he had known for way too little.</p><p>He clenched his jaw, tight enough to break it in half if needed. He welcomed this pain too. “Yeah, we do. We do, Sam. Lucifer killed her the moment he realized we trapped his ass. He killed her. You know he did.” He forced himself to say it, all of it. It had to be said, because otherwise it would’ve led to hope. And hope was the worst monster ever created. There was a reason why it was stuck at the bottom of Pandora’s box.</p><p>Hope made everything seem bearable and it took all of your strength and it left you to die, still clinging to its hands, waiting to be saved.</p><p>And there was no one saving you, he had learnt first-hand one too many times.</p><p>He soldiered on: “She's gone. They're all gone.”</p><p>“<em>He’s</em> <em>gone</em>,” he wanted to scream at the skies, knowing that all the remaining angels and demons knew it already, but wanting to yell at them nevertheless. It was all their fault, for their stupid wars and their stupid plans and their stupid Apocalypses.</p><p>Castiel was dead. And there was nothing anyone could do.</p><p>He wanted to scream, but no sound came out. He wanted to cry, but his tears run dry. He wanted to die, but he knew he couldn’t.<br/>
Dean flicked his lighter open, taking his eyes from the still form in front of him.</p><p><em>“When I am dead,”</em> he wanted to tell Sam, but couldn’t, <em>“I charge you to mingle our ashes and bury us together.”</em></p><p>But he couldn’t tell his brother that, he wouldn’t have understood. He would’ve looked at Dean like he was crazy, mad, insane. But Dean was at his most sober. He knew that without his Angel, his Sunshine, his Cas, life would have no meaning.</p><p>He threw the lighter away, at the pyre, watching it light up and burn.</p><p>It was almost romantic, a bonfire under the moon and stars. Just him and Cas, as he had always dreamed.</p><p>Dean had dreamed of many things, many scenarios about their future, about how he would gather all his courage and confess himself to Castiel, uncaring if he was reciprocated, happy to just let the Angel know that he had changed him, for good, and that he had found happiness in just being around him.</p><p>He dreamed of retiring, say ‘<em>Screw You’</em> to Heaven and Hell and just open a roadhouse like Ellen did. He dreamed of staying at the bunker and help the new generation of hunters, his work finally done. He dreamed of white picket fences and gardens and home-baked pies.</p><p>HE wanted all of that, but he also knew, now more than ever, that those were just that. Dreams.</p><p>Because Castiel was gone and with him, Dean’s happiness was gone too.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I took some liberties and added some lines(or feels) from 15x18, cause, you know.<br/>And there is also a Patrochilles quote straight out of the song of Achilles, to add in the pain.<br/>Sorry<br/>and thank you so much for reading!<br/>Please don't forget to comment, especially if just to yell! and leave a kudo!<br/>Till next time,<br/>Jo</p></blockquote></div></div>
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